


Terrible Aim

by ArcticLucie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Language of Flowers, M/M, Pre-Slash, art therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8721028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcticLucie/pseuds/ArcticLucie
Summary: Daryl doesn't flirt... in the traditional sense.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VulgarSequins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulgarSequins/gifts).



> Just gonna gift this to VulgarSequins for the plot bunny.
> 
> A big thanks to my wonderful beta [MermaidSheenaz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidSheenaz) for helping me out. <3

Daryl didn’t exactly have the best role models growing up, or any really. No one to teach him how to shave or fix a carburetor, and certainly not about the birds and the bees. Merle liked to think he taught him everything he knew, but that wasn’t true. Daryl picked up most things through observation and trial and error: how to hunt, how to skin just about anything, how to hide in plain sight.

How to flirt with men, or rather, how _not_ to.

He’d grown good at _not_ flirting. Turned out to be easy when you kept everyone an arm’s length away. And when the world turned, weren’t nobody left to bother with, to hide from, to push away when the weird ache in his belly started to stir ‘cause there wasn’t a soul around to stir it.

Until they found _him_ , all flowing hair and eyes like water, glinting with mischief yet breathtakingly beautiful. And when that ache began to grow, he stomped it down, tried his best to put out the fire before it grew out of control. Which really boiled down to him being a Dixon, the obnoxious kind full of venom and moonshine, the kind Merle woulda been proud of, and he kinda hated himself a little for it.

But the more Daryl felt those eyes on him, carving through all his armor like a river through a canyon, the more he pushed back. It started with little things, the flip of the bird and an unflattering name. Then a rabbit to the face, but that might as well have been an “I love you” in the language of the forest. And maybe it was.

Carol told him to stop acting like a kindergartener with a crush, but he scoffed her off. He didn’t quite catch her meaning since he never went to kindergarten. In fact, he didn’t go to school at all until well after his Ma died and some pigs found him barefoot and running wild in the streets during school hours.

That’s when they ran all the tests, to assess his mental state or whatever the shit that meant. But he couldn’t read or write, so they used art, sat him down with a box of crayons and had him draw for a while. It offered a catharsis he’d never had before. He wondered how good he could’ve been if he’d stuck with it, but he didn’t have the luxury of what ifs nowadays.

But every now and then, when they saddled him with Judith for a while, he’d bust out the crayons. Her dexterity left something to be desired, but it gave him five minutes to let his mind wander, to let everything he’d seen and everywhere they’d gone fall away, to conjure up some goddamn peace.

*****

Paul had grown used to getting hit in the face over the years. You kind of have to learn to roll with the punches when you grow up gay. But every time he walked into the Grimes’ house, he kind of expected Daryl to pelt him with something, be that a physical object or just a well-placed barb.

But he’d be a liar if he didn’t say it was love at first punch, so it seemed to fit.

So when he walked in today, a half step behind Rick, and heard Carol snickering and Daryl cursing, he braced himself for the physical. And he was right to do so because just as soon as Rick made their presence known, he got hit right in the nose by a balled up piece of paper.

His eyes found Daryl, one arm curled around Judith almost like a shield, and the other holding a fuchsia crayon. He looked just as stunned as Paul did for half a second until he turned a murderous glare on Carol. Paul took the opportunity to snatch up the paper and stuff it in his pocket. It was probably nothing, just a picture for the baby, but he felt compelled to.

It burned a hole in his pocket the whole trip back to Hilltop, but they’d had more pressing matters to discuss at the time. So he waited until he slipped into the safety of his room before he let his fingers curl around the crinkled paper. He pulled it out of his coat and opened it up, careful not to tear the edges.

He took in a stuttered breath as he studied the drawing. It looked rudimentary, like that of a child, but he could see Daryl in every crayon stroke, a reserved beauty that most would miss if they didn’t look hard enough. But he did, he had, the first day they met. And he wondered if Daryl saw him the same way.

The pink flowers woven into his hair had him swallowing around a lump in his throat. Maybe Daryl drew them to emasculate him, but that didn’t seem like Daryl. He knew nature, knew the power of color, and pink flowers _meant_ something.

Or maybe he was reading too far into it, into a stupid drawing, one that had been thrown right in his face. But then again, it wouldn’t be the first time Daryl aimed for his face only to hit his heart. For an archer, sometimes he had terrible aim.

Or maybe he didn’t.


End file.
